


Dragon Rider to DADA Professor

by CometDarling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CometDarling/pseuds/CometDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brom dies, he strays off the beaten path. Ending up on Earth, he must gather the Four, stop a war and try not to be a bore while he teaches DADA. Add in teenage hormones, exasperating prophecies and medieval meets modern life, then try to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cheated of death

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, I need to make changes to this chapter. Shit has been going down on my end, and I'm not going to bore you with what. Suffice to say, there's a reason I haven't updated for this long.
> 
> Anyway, since I'm sure you're all dying for the next chapter, it will be up soon BARRING COMPLICATIONS. If it's not - assume shit hit the fan.
> 
> Now, enjoy!

The spirit of Brom Holcombsson watched fondly as his only son Eragon returned to the grave Saphira's namesake had transformed to diamond so long ago. So much of his life had been dedicated to the fight against the mad king that he had not been able to rest in peace, and he had followed the events along with many other spirits who would now be passing on.

Prominently among them were Ajihad, previous leader of the Varden and Nasuada's father; Jarnunvosk, first dragon of Galbatorix; Morzan, his bitter enemy and father of Murtagh; and Vrael, last leader of the old order of the Dragon Riders. Brom didn't know exactly who they were, but he suspected that many, many souls inhabited Alagaësia.

* * *

They were all there for different reasons, but they had all stayed in the realm of the living because they weren't quite finished with life yet – or it with them. Jarnunvosk had been here the longest of those Brom would recognise. She thought that the whole mess was her fault and had been consumed by guilt for over a hundred years.

She had passed into the nether, but before Galbatorix died; she passed on when Eragon and the dragons wrought the great spell that made him understand what he had done. In that moment, she knew that he would retreat from the path of twisted darkness and understand what it was that she had tried to tell him for all those years.

Jarnunvosk knew that when Galbatorix cast his final spell, 'Waíse néiat' (Be not), he hadn't been trying to kill those who had caused his suffering. He had been trying to rid the world of himself and help them destroy the twisted Shruiken, his final gift to the world he had once loved. Knowing that he would soon join her, she became at peace and moved on.

* * *

Vrael watched in pride as his partner, Umaroth, helped destroy the misguided man who had killed him and his dragon's body. He smiled when he saw Eragon's intentions to restore the Riders. Though pained by the separation of he and his partner, he knew that eventually Umaroth would join him. But he couldn't abide the idea of the Riders falling forever.

Vrael also approved of the previously rejected notion of enabling Urgals and dwarves to become Riders. Interracial unity was required for the survival of Alagaësia. Knowing that the only home he had ever known was safe – for now – and that the Riders were emerging into the new era, Vrael finally allowed himself to pass on, content to wait until the partner-of-his-mind-and-soul, as Saphira put it, was ready to join him.

* * *

Brom listened to Eragon try to convince the dragons to return Brom to life; finally, he accepted that he shouldn't. His son's desire, Brom knew, was born of the burning ache of loss.

As Eragon changed the words on his tomb, Brom felt a strange sensation. If he'd had a body, he would have described it as a ripple of pure energy flowing through it, something denser and more powerful than the energy used by magicians, which suddenly seemed weak and diluted in comparison.

Eragon finished and placed his hand on the sculpture. At last, he said quietly, "Thank you for everything you taught me." Then he slowly mounted Saphira and flew off into the sunset.

Brom felt the energy again, a thousand times more powerful than the first time. It was pure metaphorical adrenaline, exhilarating and making him want to do something. He didn't know what, but it was an urge, like an itch he couldn't scratch but so much stronger.

 _I wonder if this is death energy?_  he wondered.  _Death is more powerful than life, and it is eternal. I wonder if this is it?_  He broke off his musings when he noticed that he was no longer in the world of his birth.

If Brom had to describe the place he now was in a few words, he would have said 'Nonexistent, yet part of everything.' That was exactly what it was like; there were no words to describe it, yet he could call it anything and it would fit a facet of where he was. He wondered if that was truly the way this place worked.

" **That is correct, yes indeed. Now of our words you must take heed** ," rumbled a harmony of voices, eerily in sync. It – they – didn't quite speak, but he felt an impression of the meaning, clearer than if words had been used. " **Part of the universes' flow, is life's end. But for a while you shall escape, beside a close friend**."

" _Who are you?_ " Brom tried to ask. He didn't actually say anything, but he got the feeling the voices would know anyway.

" **It is not what we are that you need to know. It is what we are doing, where you need to go** ," replied the voices.

" _Voices on the flipside of everything have to rhyme? Really?_ " Brom responded in a dry voice – well, a dry form of communication.

" **This happens more often than you might think. Oftentimes, worlds are on disaster's brink**."

" _Right. So what am I here for_?"                                    

" **Listen and recall, both now and before. Upon this will depend the lives of the Four.** "

" _All right, remember everything you said. Got it. Anything of actual weight?_ "

" **Our grasp you now have once eluded, but next your time shall be concluded. You were at our right, with another in dark night. But you escaped the cleft, to stand beside others at the left.** "

Brom filed away the perplexing answers to study later. " _I don't know what you're talking about,_ " he replied. He assumed the 'cleft', 'night' and 'grasp' were all metaphorical replacements for other things and was hoping the voice's answers would clue him in.

Dead silence.

" _So you respond to questions_ ," mused Brom. " _Let's try . . . Can you tell me what I need to know?_ "

" ** _Listen hard, listen well_**  
 ** _And you'll remember by a spell,_**  
 ** _When and what you need to know_**  
 ** _So that onwards you may go._**

**_An end to war of Snake's conceive_ **  
**_Will be born on Hallows' Eve._ **  
**_Seek three of that which you make four,_ **  
**_As to be done, there still is more._ **

**_A silver light on black sky's gorge_ **  
**_For one might say they are their scourge._ **  
**_Battered, torn, near dead alive_ **  
**_They must struggle to survive._ **

**_Wi . . ._** " The voices went on, but even as he heard the words Brom couldn't remember them – not a single word remained in his mind.

" _That doesn't tell me anything unless I can remember what you said_ ," frowned Brom. " _Uh . . . what will happen immediately after I arrive in this 'other world'?_ "

" ** _When you do soon fall to Earth,_**  
 ** _There are some you must give berth._**  
 ** _Of trust there are some up to scratch,_**  
 ** _Per voyager a different batch._**

 ** _Trust the man of silver fall,_**  
 ** _Trust the son of flower scrawl,_**  
 ** _Trust the mage of hair like pitch,_**  
 ** _Trust the wife of pepper switch._** "

" _So there are four I can trust, assuming they're all people and not metaphors_ ," mused Brom. " _And some I need to avoid. Same as normal life, really. Well, anything else?_ "

" **It will be different, yet the same. To see a true person, you must forget their name** ," replied the voices. " **Now you will leave, take flight, and arrive during darkest night.** "

" _What do you mean take flight-_ " Brom began but was but off by a whirling sensation that seemed to spin and twist the inner core of his being, seeming to be moulding his very soul into a different shape.

He lost any sense of time as the sensations continued, accompanied by bright flashes of colour, and was surprised when he finally fell to Earth.

Brom Holcombsson fell to the ground of another world in another universe, alive once more.


	2. Standing Where The Ceiling Used To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO! Something has happened to Brom that not even he understands, and he's been sent off to another weird place. But, wait - isn't he still DEAD?!

_Last time: Brom Holcombsson fell to the ground of another world in another universe, alive once more._

As his newly returned body struck the ground, Brom's mind was racing. He was taking note of his surroundings, a well-worn route for his brain, but he barely processed his findings amidst his harried musings.

_I was in Alagaësia, a spirit or ghost of some kind – no, not a spirit, nobody could see me – and after Eragon returned to my diamond grave...never thought I'd actually be remembered by anyone, let alone with a tomb like that...there was a surge of some energy, more potent than anything I've ever encountered._

_It wasn't the great amount of it that was startling... it was as though every tiny particle of that energy was a hundred – no, a thousand – a thousand times as powerful as the same amount of regular energy._

_Then I was_ there _, and those voices were speaking. They said a lot, but what did they_ really  _say? For the life of me, I can't remember. Those rhymes... 'close friend', 'Four' and something about forgetting people's names. There was also that little bit about darkest night or some such._

The slow grinding of stone on stone alerted him to an approaching presence. Brom glanced around the room, seeing and dismissing desks, tables, bookshelves and an empty bird perch as possible hiding places.

The grinding ceased, replaced by slow, sure footsteps from behind the thick ironbound door. The engraved handle turned smoothly and silently as Brom watched, prepared for soldiers, lords, even elves or dwarves – but not the single old man with a fire-plumed bird on his shoulder.

Seemingly unflustered by his appearance, the old man smiled, sharp eyes evaluating him from behind half-moon spectacles. "Hello."

"Is this heaven?" inquired Brom cautiously. He didn't think so, because he could feel carpet under his bare feet, smell a faint scent of sweetened lemon and actually see once more. The sensations told him he was alive. But he thought he'd better exhaust all avenues of possibility.

The man chuckled, amused. "No, I'm afraid not. Thank you, though – that is quite possibly the nicest comment my office has ever received. Are you lost?"

"No, I'm..." Brom hesitated. He was reluctant to tell this strange man anything, but he needed information. "I think I may have lost my memory. Where am I?"

"At Hogwarts, of course. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"I was unaware that there was any formal schooling system for such things," replied Brom, hiding astonishment. "I'm Brom."

"Well met, Mr Brom, well met. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?" offered Dumbledore, taking a seat behind a polished desk. The fiery bird flew to the polished wooden perch.

"A what, exactly?"

"A sherbet lemon. A Muggle lolly, the origins of which unfortunately cause derision in many of our peers, but quite satisfying."

"No, thank you," replied Brom, thinking that this wasn't really the moment for unknown foods. And that while he understood most of what the man said, some of it was either in another language or local idioms he would need to learn.

"Very well. Now, how much do you remember?"

"Very little, sadly," Brom said after a moment's hesitation, thinking he could 'recall' more later.

"Of course." Dumbledore fixed Brom with piercingly blue eyes, as though he sensed the deception. Not a moment later, Brom detected a fluttering, probing pressure against his mind, unlike anything he'd felt before.

"What kind of bird is that? I don't believe I've seen its like before," commented Brom, carefully ensuring his mind was fixed on the bird. It really was magnificent, with a sweeping tail, delicate neck, intelligent eyes and shimmering plumage that mimicked a vision of the bird wreathed in fire.

"Fawkes is a phoenix; wonderfully magical creatures. They are the personification of fire itself, you understand, and their healing powers are proof that anything can be used for good." Dumbledore smiled, and the light pressure on Brom's mind abated, though he remained wary.

"I see." No further comment seemed necessary. "I don't mean to impose, but would I be able to have use of a bed tonight? I'd pay you back, but I don't seem to have any means of payment."

"No, no, you need not repay a courtesy. Indeed, I would not dream of exacting a price for such a small act. Fimmy?"

A sudden cracking noise later, a small, wrinkled creature appeared in the middle of the room. It was neatly dressed in a green and white chequered dishcloth over old-looking skin, with great flappy ears and round eyes of dark brown.

"Professor Dumbledore is wanting Fimmy?" it squeaked. Brom thought, though was not entirely sure, that it was female.

"Fimmy, this is Brom. Brom, this is Fimmy, one of Hogwarts' house-elves. Could you please show him to the guest quarters? I would do it myself, but I have received an urgent letter from the Minister."

The little creature puffed up her chest in pride. "Fimmy will show Mister Brom right away, Headmaster! Fimmy will not let Professor Dumbledore down! This way, please, sir," she squeaked, tugging gently on Brom's rough homespun trousers.

Brom looked for assurance, but the old man merely smiled that annoyingly serene smile and gestured for him to go with the thing.

Brom followed the creature down a majestically turning staircase and into a maze of corridors with flagstone floors, vaulted ceilings and thick, iron-bound doors at irregular intervals.

"Who are you there, boy?" snapped a voice from somewhere in front of him. Brom glanced around, but he couldn't see another person.

"Miss Carter, this is being Mister Brom. Professor Dumbledore says he is staying here," squeaked Fimmy.

With a barely concealed start, Brom realised that the 'house-elf' was talking to the wall, where a gilded portrait hung. The portrait of a stern-looking older woman, to be precise. Her hair was gathered into a severe bun and her dress was unassuming, but expensive at a closer look.

"Oh? And who might you be, Mister Brom?" she asked, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

"A traveller, madam," he replied.

"I see. Very well, you may continue," she informed him haughtily, closing her eyes in clear dismissal.

Fimmy bowed to the painting and hurried on. Brom momentarily lengthened his stride to catch up.

"Fimmy, is it normal for paintings to talk here?" he queried, sounding unconcerned but feeling dangerously uncertain.

"Of course, sir," came the unsettling reply. "Is you coming from a long ways away, Mister Brom? Magical paintings is always moving and talking, sir, and pictures is moving."

"Yes, I've come a long way. Thank you." He was so busy studying further moving artworks that he didn't notice Fimmy come to a stop until he nearly stepped on her.

"You – you is saying thank you!" whispered the creature. He automatically looked down and saw tears in her great eyes. "Wizards is  _never_  saying please and thank you to house-elves, except Professor Dumbledore."

"Why not?" Brom was startled. Surely everyone here – wherever it was – couldn't be that rude. "It's only polite."

"House-elves is not important enough to be polite to, sir." Fimmy spoke with the air of a confession. "We is like servants, sir – like slaves! We live only to serve our masters, sir." The little creature looked around nervously, then scurried on, beckoning him forward.

Brom followed mechanically, caught up in thoughts of what he had just learned.  _Are they some relation to elves? Is the entire race enslaved, or does the term 'house-elf' only denote those who are in this servitude? Are they some kind of magical construct? No, the power needed would be enormous, and it would be impossible to create individual personalities for each one..._

* * *

Brom woke up the next morning to warm golden sunshine streaming in through his windows. He groaned inaudibly, turned over and attempted to go back to sleep, but within seconds recognised the futility of his action. He reluctantly parted with the most comfortable bed he'd slept in for years and opened the half-closed door, thinking it to be some sort of washing room. What he found puzzled him immensely.

A tiled room, white with brass fittings on various unknown objects, lay before him. He could see nothing resembling either a chamber pot or a water jug. There was a bath tub in the corner, and a sink with an extraordinarily clear mirror above it, but not a hint of a water source.

He wasn't quite sure how, but he summoned Fimmy and began attempting to explain what a chamber pot was.

"Like a toilet?" Fimmy questioned, pointing at a strange porcelain ornament-thing.

"A...toilet?" Brom tried out the strange word on his tongue, sure that he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Also called a loo, sir. People is using it to relieve themselves, like chamber pot," continued the house-elf, gesticulating oddly.

"How would one go about using a 'toilet'?" queried Brom, getting very impatient.

"You needs to lift the lid, sir, and relieve yourself, then pull the chain next to it," recited Fimmy at speed. "Is you needing help with any of these other things, sir?"

"Well, you see, I need to-" began Brom, but the creature was talking at top speed again, and it was all he could do to keep up with the desperately-needed explanation of various objects.

After finally learning how to use a bathroom (and relieving himself), Brom returned to the bedroom to find his clothes from yesterday lying folded on his bed, clean and repaired until they looked good as new. Next to them was a small pile of belongings.

Brom carefully redressed, loving the feeling of fresh, flexible leather against his skin, and picked up his staff. His fingers brushed metal beneath it and a tingling sweet-burn he hadn't felt in years shot up them, eliciting an immediate freeze of all his muscles other than the hurriedly removed hand.

Brom, not daring to look, slowly replaced his fingers, only to feel the warm sensation again, stronger.

He chanced a glance and stilled, not knowing how to react. Before him on the clean bed lay Undbitr, the Wound Biter, his beloved, long-lost Rider sword.

His trembling hand reached out to caress the burnished bronze wire of the grip, the perfectly hexagonal star sapphire set into the rounded pommel. Wide, disbelieving eyes traced over the familiar metal scabbard, speckled dark and pale blue with intricately knotted bronze curving around the top.

Dazedly, as though he was dreaming, Brom finally took grip on the hilt and lifted his weapon free of her scabbard. Undbitr emerged with the familiarly ominous hiss he'd heard too many times in his youth, as though making up for its absence later in his life.

The blade, made of blued metal, had the same look of the star sapphire, modelled after Saphira, his lost dragon. Speckled with a bronze colour near the hilt, it faded lighter towards the point, until it was the colour her underbelly had been. In the dead centre of the blade three silver lines converged, one running straight up and down the blade, the others at a slant. The convergence, copied exactly on the other side, formed a perfect six-pointed asterix.

Brom admired it for a moment before returning the sword to its scabbard, overwhelmed by the rush of feelings and memories it induced, many of which he had tried to lock away for painful years.

After eating the breakfast thoughtfully provided by Fimmy, Brom elected to spend the day exploring the castle. He had no idea how large it was or how many people it housed, though from what he could seen it could be home to several thousand. It was certainly large enough.

Utilizing skills learned many years before, Brom kept a clear mental map of his location as he wandered. For a long while, he encountered no forms of life other than the paintings, which probably didn't count.

"Why, hello there! I don't believe I've seen you before," boomed a voice. "Are you a new teacher, by any chance?"

Around the corner floated a man dressed in odd, puffed clothes that Brom was sure had been out of fashion for centuries. He was half-transparent and half-opaque, a cloudy white colour partially obscuring the colour of his clothes and body.

"I'm Brom," introduced Brom. "What are you?"

The man chuckled. "I'm a ghost, dear boy! Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, known as Sir Nicholas."

"I see. Does anyone other than Professor Dumbledore reside in the castle?"

Nicholas eyed him curiously. "Of course not right now, the students are on holidays! Come September first, they'll be bringing the castle down around our ears with all their noise!" Though his words seemed harsh, his affectionate smile suggested otherwise.

"Thank you." Brom made to move on, but Nicholas laid a hand on his arm. The touched section felt like it had been covered in ice.

"Some of the teachers do stay here from time to time, in particular those closer to Dumbledore. I would advise caution. These are dangerous days, and some of the more suspicious and rash may be inclined to attack strangers first, asking questions later." The ghost's eyes probed his own, and Brom felt a flash of mingled feelings: annoyance, curiosity, weariness and, to his chagrin, a little excitement. He was never one to sit idle.

"I'll bear that in mind," he responded gruffly. "Thank you again."

He had no idea how grateful he would later be that he had listened.

* * *

A tall boy, sporting long dark hair and a worried expression, ran up the inner steps of a cold grey building, lunging up two or even three at a time.

"Sirius Black!" called a girl's voice playfully from inside the flat he threw the door open to. "Stop breaking my house!"

Sirius didn't smile, instead running a hand through wind-wrecked hair. "Southy, can you come here please," he called, a rare urgency colouring his tone.

A tall, muscled black girl strode out, eyes searching around as she spoke. "What? Something must be really wrong, you're alone. Where's James?"

Sirius shook his head. "Back home. The most awful things happened last night, Morgan. The  _Daily Prophet_  hasn't said anything and the Ministry's trying to hush it up, but James's dad though we should know. Nearly thirty people were killed last night; either school-age Muggleborns or their families. Seven synchronized home attacks."

Morgan's hands flew to her mouth, dark eyes wide enough for a sliver of white to be visible around the entire circumference of her irises. "Merlin, Mordred and Morgana," she whispered. " _Thirty_?"

He nodded reluctantly and she swallowed hard. He opened his arms and she pulled herself into him tightly, not sobbing but needing the comfort all the same. They stayed like that for a long while, neither wanting to move.

"Dumbledore will call a meeting, of course," said Morgan finally, loosening but not releasing her hold. "And we'll need to find out if it was anyone we know, anyone in the Order..." Her eyes went wide. "Lily."

"She's fine," reassured Sirius immediately. "Freaked as anything to hear the news, of course, but she was still alive when James owled her this morning. Remus has gone to check on her, given he has his Apparition license."

Morgan nodded. "He'll see to her. Still, just – Sweet Circe. This is really happening. We're in a war now, and it's not just angry words and a few hexes anymore." She finally relinquished her hold and they stepped inside, Sirius hanging his cloak with a gentle smooth that made Morgan smile.

Sirius nodded but didn't reply. But someone else did.

"Hello there. I don't suppose you could tell me where Sei is?"

The reactions of Sirius and Morgan were identical and instantaneous, whipping out thin wooden wands and pointing them directly at the young girl behind the voice. She was standing in the kitchen, behind the counter, but stepped around it.

"Who are you? How did you get here?" demanded Morgan.

The girl shrugged. She looked to be about ten with odd silver hair, tipped with black, tangled and wild with high, pointed ears poking out. Her slanted eyes were silver with slitted pupils and black sclera. Her clothes were in a medieval fashion, made of leather and finely spun wool, with a dagger on each hip.

"To the latter, I am not possessed of such information. Had I it, I would be utilizing it in order to return. As to the former, I am Moonbane, companion and guardian to Sei. Have you seen her?" The girl's voice was slightly rough and yet almost sibilant. She stepped forwards, her movements sinuous and graceful, only to stop when the pair lifted their wands. Her thin lips curved into a darkly amused smile, revealing white teeth pointed like daggers.

"Don't know her, most likely haven't seen her," snapped Sirius. "Why are you here?"

Moonbane pondered for a moment, hooding her eyes with what appeared to be a second set of eyelids. "I am unsure. But such things rarely happen without rhyme, rhythm or reason. This was foreordained."

"Right, well, I'm sure it was also foreordained that you leave before we make you," returned Morgan coolly. "Kindly leave before I notify the Magical Law Enforcement Squad."

Moonbane seemed faintly amused if the slight quirk of the corner of her mouth was anything to go by. "Enforcing law on magicians? Well, this world seems sufficiently civilized to support such, but it seems that even now history repeats itself..."

She fixed her unnerving eyes on Sirius. "A silver light on black sky's gorge," she murmured to herself.

Sirius flinched as if struck. "Where did you hear that?" he snarled. "Tell me!"

"Black, calm down," snapped Morgan, using her free hand to smack his shoulder. "Focus."

He turned to half face her, exposing himself. "Southy, this isn't a whim, this is important!"

"There's some strange, possibly dangerous person here, you should be focusing on the threat first!" hissed Morgan, stubbornly keeping her eyes on Moonbane though her attention was on the boy beside her.

Moonbane watched the exchange quietly, a devious expression curling her lips. "Vondr, flauga," she called softly. The teenagers' faces whipped towards her with identical expressions of horror as their wands flew to rest between sharp black nails.

"You shouldn't argue, children," she explained mildly. "It distracts you and makes you more vulnerable, both individually and as a unit. Not to mention less cohesive and less likely to cooperate."

Sirius glared and was about to step forwards when she pointed a slender finger at him, the pointed tip of her nail glowing dangerously. "I don't think so. We have danced around the dragon long enough; now we must face its fangs and bare our own. Who are you, truly?"

Morgan's face distorted into a defensive scowl. "As an intruder, shouldn't you be answering that?"

A rueful smile twisted the child's lips. "Very well, human. I am Moonbane, companion of Sei Blödhgarm-dotir, werecat of the Clan of the Silver Suns. I would add that I come in peace, but I did not come here of my own free will and will not make promises I do not know I can keep. And so I ask again, human: Who are you?"

* * *

Vondr - a long, straight stick

Flauga - Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehe...okay, I'd just like to apologise for the ridiculous amount of time between updates. Unfortunately, updates are going to be few and far between ANYWAY, so please bear with me. Thanks!


End file.
